


Don't They Know It's the End of the World?

by narrowriver



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Romance, Blood, Character Death, Clarke is the Sole Survivor, Clexa, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired in part by Fallout 4, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, Prisoner of War, Somewhat of a canon re-telling, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5644288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrowriver/pseuds/narrowriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2052, Clarke Griffin is a medical student on her way home to Washington D.C.  when the war to end all wars – and the Earth as she knows it -  begins. Upon finding shelter at Vault R – an underground nuclear bunker for top military officials – Clarke finds herself directed into a cryogenic chamber and launched into frozen unconsciousness for the next 97 years.</p><p>In 2149, she awakes, and the world that she knew is unrecognizable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Work and chapter title courtesy of Skeeter Davis' [The End of the World](https://youtu.be/N_4cnUhQ6rs).

**_8:59AM, October 29 th, 2052_ **

_“Annnd now it’s time for your digital streaming WBZD morning news, every 30 on the hour… Tensions continue at the United Nations as the US and China continue to discuss a peace treaty and nuclear proliferation deal with no true end in sight. Operation Alaskan Freedom hits its ten-year anniversary this weekend, with a heavy loss of life in the past decade for both US troops and the Chinese. The majority of causalities, as you know, took place during the Anchorage Campaign seven years ago...”_

It was a normal, drizzly morning in October when the world ended.

The slick pavement raced by as Clarke Griffin drove down Pennsylvania’s Highway 15, on her way home to Washington, D.C. Her self-driving Chevrolet Vieria – the latest in personal transportation – sped along the rural country roads at one hundred miles per hour past the idyllic scenery of southern Pennsylvania.

The 2050s had been great for technology so far, but not so much for the state of everything else.

Sapphire eyes on the road in front of her just in case, Clarke brushed a lock of her glimmering blond hair off of her favorite sweatshirt, a dark blue hoodie with stark white letters spelling out NAVY across the chest. She tucked it behind her ear and exhaled deeply at the news. The broadcast continued, the chipper male voice listing off the news items with ease.

_“… Oil and water resources continue to dwindle as the National Weather Service records record precipitation lows and forecasts a very warm winter ahead. Moving to business news, RobCo Industries has released a new model of its Mister Handy robot, the increasingly popular domestic robot that has America’s households in awe. A new model of their Mister Gutsy model is being made in cooperation with the US military for use on the frontlines, but has not been released as of yet. And now, an ad from our sponsor, Vault-Tec, the number one manufacturer of nuclear preparedness…”_

Cheery music filled Clarke’s ears and she rolled her eyes.

_“Our American way of life is the greatest on Earth. Seemingly perfect, you might say! But, what if it’s not? Your future might not be as secure as you think. Where will you be when the atomic bombs fall? You can secure your family’s survival today by reserving a spot in a state of the art, underground vault from Vault-Tec. Act now, and your family can wait out the horrors of nuclear devastation. Sign up by giving us a call at 1-800-555-1010, and prepare your family for the future of our great country!”_

The broadcast ended, and the oldies Clarke had been playing once again spilled out of her car’s speakers. As Sinatra crooned, Clarke’s phone rang, and the blonde grabbed the vibrating object, a grin lighting up her features at the caller identification being America’s largest space station.

“Rav! How’s space?”

A far away, sarcasm-laden voice came barreling out of the phone. “It’s out of this world.”

“Har har.”

Clarke’s smile widened at Raven’s sudden laughter. “But actually, Clarke, it is so cool up here. I am learning so much and oh my god, the Earth is so tiny and everyone up here is brilliant. I do miss real food already though, holy shit.” 

Clarke laughed. “Glad to hear that, Raven.”

“But seriously, the food situation. I can’t eat fucking _soy_ forever, I am already so sick of it… but Griff, seriously -  I wish you were here.” There was a pause. “I’m worried about you and everyone still down there.”

Clarke scoffed. “Don’t. I don’t think anything is going to happen. They just can’t decide on terms, I guess. Mom said that Wallace is on top of it. And I wish I was there, too.”

“ _Well_ … we _do_ need doctors up here, you know. I weirdly cut myself pretty bad in zero G yesterday and the ass that patched me up stared at _my_ ass a minute too long.”

“Yeah, but they probably don’t want a doctor with only one year of med school under their belt, even if it _is_ from the crimson H. Everything will be fine, Raven. Promise.”

“You can’t promise that, Clarke.”

“Yeah, I know. But I also have a front row seat to the Tobin Wallace show thanks to Mom, so.”

“Ahh, _Admiral_ Abby. How _is_ the First Doctor? Has she shacked up with Wallace yet?” Raven’s voice practically wore a smirk despite the white noise from space dominating the background of the call.

Clarke grimaced, her nose scrunching in disgust. “Don’t be gross. I’m pretty sure my mom isn’t fucking the President. And besides, they’re pretty busy as of late trying to keep Alaska Chinese-free. I doubt there’d even be time.”

“You’d be surprised at what men make time for, Griff. Even Presidents.” 

“See, you keep being gross and I’m going to hang up. I’m driving, anyway,” Clarke argued, the corners of her mouth upturned in a subtle smile.

“Oh please. _Driving_. Right, that excuse went out the window when they made computers our chauffeurs.”

“You still have to watch the road!” Clarke bit back, struggling to hide a chuckle.

“Right. Although I actually have to go for real now, I have an experiment to check on,” Raven said, her tone holding a twinge of regret.

“Anything explosive?”

“Sadly, no. Just fluid physics. I won’t bore you with the details.”

“Appreciated. When are you coming back down here again?” Clarke asked innocently, tapping her fingers on the rarely-used steering wheel.

“Oh come on, like you don’t already have a countdown for it. Six months, Griff. And then I’ll be back in Cambridge and we can eat all the Indian we want…” Raven replied, the wistfulness in her voice hardly disguised. The late nights the two had spent practically binging the best Indian food in Central Square – halfway between their respective schools, Harvard and MIT – were among some of Clarke’s fondest memories.

“Mmm. Yes. That sounds great. Six months, got it. _Now_ I’ll start a countdown,” Clarke finished cheekily.

“Alight, Clarke, I gotta go. Take care of yourself, yeah? Have fun in D.C. this weekend – say hi to Wells for me - and we’ll talk soon,” Raven promised. Clarke sighed; her best friend had left on the shuttle only a week ago but it felt like it had been months.

“Bye, Rav. Don’t go outside without one of those suits, I don’t want you to get floated off into the great mysterious expanse of space before I can see you again.”

Raven laughed. “Got it. No floating. Bye, Clarke. See you soon.”

“Yeah – only six long months! Bye, Raven.” Clarke pressed the end button on her phone and bit her lip, gaze turning to the side to watch the fields roll past. There were quicker routes from Boston to D.C., but she enjoyed the landscapes and lack of traffic by using the back ways. 

Clarke leaned back in her seat and turned up her music’s volume as Skeeter Davis began singing her melodic hit, ‘The End of the World’. Clarke closed her eyes and hummed along, the multitude of thoughts pinging around her mind starting to quiet as the old ballad’s simple beauty settled into her bones.

_Why does the sun go on shining?_

_Why does the sea rush to shore?_

_Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?_

Clarke sighed, her grip loose on the wheel. She blinked her eyes open and peered out of the windshield at the sky up ahead, her indigo eyes squinting slightly.

There was an odd greenish tinge to it, and Clarke had to grab the wheel suddenly as a brute force wind came out of nowhere to play with her small car.

Static abruptly interrupted her music and startled the blond, followed by a robotic message that made Clarke’s skin prickle with violent goose bumps.

“ **THE FOLLOWING IS A CIVIL DANGER WARNING TRANSMITTED BY THE PENTAGON. SEVERAL ATOMIC BOMBS HAVE JUST HIT THE UNITED STATES. MORE BOMBS INCOMING. ALL CITIZENS ARE URGED TO FIND UNDERGROUND SHELTER IMMEDIATELY AND STAY THERE UNTIL AN ALL CLEAR IS GIVEN. AGAIN, TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL**.”

As if she was suddenly dunked under an icy ocean, Clarke shook terribly, her breathing fast and light. She shook her head and swallowed. _Don’t panic._ The terrified 21-year old’s heart hammered as she punched a button on the dashboard to take her car off of self-steering mode and floored the gas pedal.

As soon as she reached for her phone, it lit up with a call. Clarke’s hand shook as she answered, hitting the speaker phone button.

“Mom?!” Her voice shook, her tongue sandpaper.

“Clarke, honey, are you okay?!” The static noise in the back of the call was not enough to drown out the panic in Abby’s voice.

“Mom, I’m fine! I’m driving, but I don’t… where do I go? What do I do? _Where are you_?" 

“Honey –“ The call started cutting out and Clarke gripped the phone tight, the metal digging into her palms as she stared unblinkingly at the road ahead as her tiny car sped along haphazardly. 

The static abated. “Clarke, where are you right now?”

“Southern Pennsylvania, on 15–“ Clarke looked out the window, eyeing a sign. “-almost to Fairplay?”

“Oh thank god. Clarke, you’re too far to join me but you need to get off of 15 and go west to Raven Rock Mountain Complex. There’s a nuclear bunker there,” Abby instructed her calmly. In the background, Clarke heard rushed, loud voices and the shouting of instructions.

“Raven Rock? The underground Pentagon?”

“Yes, Site R, Clarke. Tell them who you are, use my Secret Service code name, just get in however you can and follow their directions. You’ll be safe there.”

“Okay. Where are you, Mom? Are you safe? Are you with Wallace?” Clarke questioned, swallowing hard.

Clarke suddenly heard the _whoosh-whoosh_ of helicopter blades and urgent voices. “Honey, yes, I have to go, we’re on our way to Mount Weather. I’ll try to find you after, okay? Everything will be okay. Please be safe. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Clarke gasped out, wetness starting to prickle in the corners of her eyes as the enormity of the situation they were in hit her full force. “I’ll see you soon. Bye Mom.”

“Bye, Clarke,” Abby exhaled, her farewell noticeably shaky as if she was holding back tears.

Clarke hung up the phone and tossed it aside before redirecting her GPS to Raven Rock. She gripped her steering wheel tightly with both hands and kept her gas pedal on the floor as the Pennsylvanian scenery whizzed by. A minute ago, it had been idyllic but now it was an obstacle standing in between Clarke and survival.

* * *

The acrid smell of burnt rubber filled Clarke’s nostrils as she leapt out of her car, grabbing her backpack and swinging it around her shoulders. The road in front of her, leading up to one of the tunnel entrances of the Site R Mountain Complex, was littered with a cluster of cars and a crowd. The crowd’s frantic yelling reached her ears as she surveyed the scene.

Clarke ran over to the crowded entrance, her golden locks being blown around her head like a halo as the wind picked up. An eerie green tinge colored the sky as the trees surrounding the complex groaned in protest at the wind.

“You have to let us in!” A heavyset bald-headed man was arguing with one of the armed soldiers stationed at the doors.

“Authorized personnel only,” the soldier, an Airman by the look of his uniform, ground out, swallowing deeply and fidgeting with the assault rifle slung across his chest.

“Authorized personnel meaning rich government men on helicopters?” The man bellowed, red in the face. He gestured towards the helicopter landing pad a short way away and pushed his sleeves up, taking a step forward.

“Sir, I advise you and everyone here to leave and seek shelter. Site R is a government facility for wartime and contingency purposes. You need to leave before it’s too late,” the soldier warned, his eyes moving off of the infuriated man to scan the ominous sky above.

“You _have_ to let us in! I know what’s in there, I know that we’d be safer down there than anywhere else! Please!” Red in the face, the bald man now turned to desperate pleas. His family stood next to him: a short dark haired woman holding a toddler in her arms, tears quietly making their way down her cheeks.

The soldier looked down, unable to look the man and his family in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any control over who’s allowed in.”

The man turned away towards his family, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Clarke saw her chance and rushed forward towards the entrance, skidding to a stop in front of the soldier who stood up straighter. “Hi, I was told to come here-”

The soldier huffed and droned out, “Sorry ma’am, authorized personnel o-“

“But I was told to come here! My name is Clarke Griffin, I’m Dr. Abigail Griffin’s daughter!”

The soldier shifted and finally swung his gaze up to look at Clarke. He squinted at her. “Who?”

“Rear Admiral Abigail Griffin, US Navy!”

“Hold on a sec-“

“The Physician to the President!”

“Wait-“

“Codename Maven! Please!,” Clarke practically shouted in desperation. The crowd behind her listened closely and started murmuring. “She told me to come here.”

“I hear you. Hold on.” The soldier cleared his throat and grabbed the radio on his shoulder. “Site R Command, Site R Command, this is Tunnel G entrance, over.”

The crowd surged forward and Clarke felt others at her back. “Hey!” She heard behind her, “If she gets in you have to let us all in!” The soldier ignored them, gripping tight to his rifle.

“Copy, Tunnel G entrance. Go ahead, over,” his shoulder radio blared out.

The solider turned his head towards the radio on his shoulder, the scruff of his beard brushing against his battle uniform. “Copy, Site R Command: I have a civilian by the name of Clarke Griffin requesting entrance to the complex by order of Rear Admiral Abigail Griffin, Codename Maven. Requesting permission to allow her in, over.”

The radio crackled. “Say again, tunnel G entrance? Over.”

“Copy, Command, the daughter of Falcon’s physician, Rear Admiral Griffin, codename Maven, is here requesting shelter in the complex. Over.” There was a pause.

“… roger, Tunnel G. Access granted by request of the President. Command out.”

Clarke stumbled forward in relief as the solider reached out to her. The crowd began to shout animatedly behind her. The young uniformed man pushed her towards the darkened entrance as he started giving her instructions. “There’s a shuttle a bit ahead, it’ll take you to the complex. Check in with the soldier carrying the clipboard when you get past the reservoirs and go where he tells you.”

“Thank you,” Clarke gasped, running forward towards the dim lights of the shuttle. The soldier nodded and turned back to the crowd, which had advanced closer to the entrance. A number of big burly men, headed by the bald family man, stood in front.

“Let us in!”

The young soldier pointed his rifle towards the men. “Disperse! All of you! I _am_ authorized to use force to protect this facility!” He brandished his weapon, taking a threatening step forward.

The bald man roared and the crowd surged forward.

Clarke kept running towards the shuttle when she heard gunfire behind her, but did not stop, and did not turn. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her gut roiling in panic and guilt. A group of armed soldiers sprinted past her towards the entrance as she came to a stop in front of the shuttle. She scrambled aboard and it took off into the darkness.

A uniformed older man sitting next to her shook slightly, the many badges and pins on his dark green blazer jingling. Clarke swallowed and directed her gaze towards the dirty floor of the shuttle.

“It was the Chinese. I heard they hit LA, Vegas, Houston, and Chicago. New York’s gotta be next.” A whisper disturbed her thoughts and she turned around. A young man in a rumpled Army uniform several seats back was talking in low tones to the man next to him, his eyes wide in the dim lighting of the shuttle.

Clarke turned back, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the seat in front of her. The shuttle stopped and she clambered off, her hands moving to the straps of her bag – she needed _something_ to hold onto, something to reassure her right now. Her gaze moved up, surveying the behemoth of a facility in front of her.

Site R was massive.

Clarke stood in what was basically a cavern, multi-story buildings hewn out of stone rising in front of her. Behind to her right glittered a black reservoir, and the hum of internal power caused a slight vibration under her feet. Important Pentagon officials, their lapels covered in shiny war badges of various shapes and sizes, were hurrying inside the stone buildings, talking in serious, hushed voices.

A soldier holding a clipboard in front of one of the buildings waved her over somewhat awkwardly, looking as if he himself had no idea what to do. “Name or ID?” he asked, angling his clipboard towards the bright lights above the door to see better.

“Uh, Clarke Griffin?”

The young soldier, a recent private from the looks of it, scanned through the pages of names on his clipboard. “Ah. Um,” he murmured as he read the sheet, “You sure? Clarke Griffin you said?”

“… yes? Is there a problem? I was told to come here…” Clarke trailed off, reluctant to spill her familial connections again. The soldier eyed her cautiously, his eyes taking in her young, windblown appearance and Navy sweatshirt.

“No, uh… no. Okay, Ms. Griffin, you’re down on level seven. Take the elevator. If you get lost, look for signs for VR. You will be given further instruction upon reaching level seven.”

“Alright, uh, thanks,” Clarke replied, her eyebrows furrowing at his weird behavior. Behind her, the young private scratched his head, a frown directed down at his clipboard.

Passing through a doorway guarded by a very thick blast door, Clarke joined a bunch of military officers in the elevator, several of them glancing over her with odd looks on their faces. Her lips downturned in a frown as the steel box descended into the Earth, stopping at each floor. By the time they reached level seven, only Clarke and one official – a graying man who looked extremely important by the size and number of medals on his blazer – were left. They glanced at one another uneasily before stepping out of the elevator.

Clarke shivered at the drop in temperature before starting to follow the important military official down a long stone hallway, then an even longer staircase that descended even further down into the Earth. His strides were long and in cadence out of habit, and Clarke lagged behind.

She felt vibrations begin on her fingertips on the railing, then in her feet; and a second flat, the entire hallway shook; and Clarke grabbed on to the railing for dear life. The salt-and-pepper haired official in front of her turned and shouted, “Let’s go!”

Clarke hurried down the stairs after him as the shaking continued, some tremors worse than others. Her mouth was dry, her tongue a desert as it licked at her lips. She focused on her feet as she ran, praying that she wouldn’t trip. The already dim lights flickered and then shut off, leaving the staircase extremely dark except for the door at the bottom of the stairs.

The panicked blond ran blindly into the room, hitting the back of the military official with an _oomph_. She apologized and backed up, then gasped.

It was an entranceway to a bigger room, but the most defining feature was a gear-shaped blast door with a yellow ‘R’ on it. A dark-haired woman in a white coat approached Clarke and the older military man.

“Ah, General Carver. Hello, good to see you, hope you’re ready. And… Clarke Griffin, I take it?”

Clarke blinked in confusion. “Uh, yes?”

“Hm.” The woman looked down at her tablet with knit brows when the tremors picked up again. The vibrations in the floor were violent, shaking their very bones; and when Clarke looked up at the stone ceiling, she was sure that she saw a small crack. The blond tried desperately to forget that the bunker was built almost one hundred years ago.

The scientist exhaled deeply, holding on to a railing on the raised bridge leading to the door. She shook her head, calming herself, and gestured for the two to follow her. The door started closing behind them, prompting Clarke to turn and watch it turn its way closed. For some reason, her pulse began to speed up and she took a deep, calming breath before following the scientist and General Carver.

The room they walked into wasn’t large, but it was definitely strange. A number of large cylindrical chambers took up most of the space, and it was ridiculously cold. Clarke shivered violently, moving her hands up and down her arms to try and warm them. Other scientists, also in starched white coats, flittered about the room in a calm panic, taking notes and moving from chamber to chamber. They were obviously ignoring the shaking walls, floor, and ceiling. 

“What is this…” Clarke whispered to herself, her blue eyes darting all around the room, taking in the almost alien furnishings.

“General Carver, empty your pockets, strip behind that screen, and then you’re right over there,” the scientist instructed, guiding the aging general to one of the two open chambers. He complied without hesitation, whereas Clarke slowly started backing up.

The scientist turned to her, her gaze flicking down to the blonde’s moving feet than back up. She smiled assuredly, remarkably calm for being faced with nuclear holocaust and violent Earth tremors. “Ms. Griffin, you’re at the very end; it’s tucked in a bit back there. Same process: empty your pockets into the provided bins, strip, and then step into the chamber.”

Clarke held her hands up, her cheeks pale, and choked out, “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“You are Clarke Griffin, yes?” The scientist asked, glancing down at her tablet and then back up.

“Yes… but… I sure as hell didn’t sign up for-“

A cloud of dust suddenly _poofed_ out of a tiny crack in the ceiling as the fluorescent lights flickered like a strobe light, accompanied by the mother of all tremors. One of the scientists finally broke, descending into hysterics, her eyes wide with fear. Clarke stumbled to her knees, breathing fast in fear and on the brink of panic.

“Ms. Griffin, please! You’ll be safe, I promise,” the scientist pleaded, reaching out to Clarke as she herself struggled to remain standing. Clarke looked at her hand, then past her at the cryogenic chamber. Maybe it was just for a few weeks, she reasoned. Might as well take advantage of the obvious case of mistaken identity… and what safer place could she be, outside of Mount Weather?

 Clarke swallowed down her uncertainty and fear before gripping onto the scientist’s hand and standing. Trying not to fall over again at the tremors, she moved over to stand in front of a chamber in the back corner of the room, definitely tucked in more than the others. She set her backpack down in one of the bins on a cart next to the chamber, emptied her pockets, then undressed in a hurry. The tremors continued and dust rained down from the light fixtures as they wobbled from side to side, throwing shadows left and right across the room.

The blond took a deep breath before stepping into the chamber and turning around. The scientist hit a button on the small pad attached to the pod and the lid to the chamber began to close.

The lid latched with a resounding _click_ as a large crash caused Clarke’s head to snap to the side. She peered out of the rapidly freezing glass, her breath now steaming out in a white cloud, and saw that part of the ceiling was now on the floor, pinning a scientist down. She brought up a fist to pound at the glass, but it stopped halfway as she lost the will and ability to move much.

Her faculties slowing, Clarke shivered in the extreme cold, her vision starting to darken. The last conscious thought she had was of her favorite oldies’ song, ironically played before the radio message that changed her world forever. As frozen unconsciousness beckoned, the song played relentlessly in the back of her mind.

_Why does my heart go on beating?_

_Why do these eyes of mine cry?_

_Don't they know it's the end of the world?_

_It ended when you said goodbye._


	2. Crawl Out Through the Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke awakens to a nightmarish new world and sets off into the now-unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone's kudos and comments on the first chapter - I'm really glad everyone is enjoying it so far.
> 
> This chapter is very description and action-heavy, but not to worry, Clexa is coming. 
> 
> Also, a warning: there's some graphic bits detailing gore in this chapter.
> 
> [Nightmare](https://youtu.be/-W59FzOwYIs?list=PL3cOLCcdl8wPheIbT_NDTqO_J8BZTovgu) by Artie Shaw (1938) was excellent inspiration for the beginning of the chapter, and chapter title is courtesy of [Crawl Out Through the Fallout](https://youtu.be/8XPzICHxXoQ?list=PL3cOLCcdl8wPheIbT_NDTqO_J8BZTovgu) by Sheldon Allman (1960).

_**June 15 th, 2149** _

“We have scouts reporting that the landslides caused by the recent rains in the area have also occurred in southern Pennsylvania. Notably, on Raven Rock,” a smooth, nasally voice informed. Its owner clasped his hands behind his back, pressing them against the distressed linen of his suit.

Aged blue eyes glanced up at the speaker, softening somewhat. His gravelly voice was soft, but commanding, cutting through the recycled air like a whip. “Site R has been lost to us since the bombs fell, Cage. According to my my grandfather’s records, most of the complex collapsed. Do you think an entrance has opened due to the landslides?”

“I do. There’s something else: we’ve also picked up on some faint energy signatures coming from deep inside the mountain.”

“Is that so?” Dante Wallace murmured, steepling his hands together on his desk. He pursed his thin lips before fixing his son with a piercing look. “Don’t get your hopes up, Cage. The collapse trapped the entire population inside and cut off access to most of its vital resources. If anyone is alive in there, they’re likely not human anymore, and not worth saving. Quite the opposite, in fact. But still, Raven Rock undoubtedly contains resources that we could put to good use…”

“I’ll prep a recon team to go there with full armament tomorrow.”

“Very well, Cage. And like I said, do not get your hopes up,” Dante warned. Cage hid an excited, smarmy smile and turned to leave, the dim lights of Dante’s office striking his oily black hair as he exited.

Dante exhaled deeply and leaned back in his leather armchair, his eyes falling to a framed photograph on his desk. The timeworn photo inside the frame showed an older man in a suit, an American flag pin on his lapel. He sat on the edge of a large wooden desk, Dante’s office’s walls visible in the background. His arm fondly extended around a woman in a white coat, her mahogany hair streaked with grey. The smile on her lips was kind, but something in her eyes betrayed a deep loss.

* * *

_Bang!_

The sound of a body slamming against glass rang out in the dilapidated, grimy room. Another _thump_ sounded as the hazmat-suited soldier was shoved into a control pad next to an icy blue cryogenic chamber. He grunted, his arm landing on a slowly blinking red button, accidentally pressing it down.

A _whoosh_ of compressed air steamed out as the lid to the chamber unlatched, the life-preserving machine humming loudly in protest at the change in its power demands. 

An inhuman, blood-curdling, screeching gurgle ricocheted off the stone walls as the creature the mountain man was fighting lunged forward again. It wore next to nothing, its ribs and bones showing through paper-thin skin that looked more like dried leather than human flesh. Its facial features were almost nonexistent, and what was there drooped off of its face as if melted: an uneven mouth with hackles raised, stubs of teeth sharpened into deadly points ready to sink into flesh, and two small holes where its nose once sat. Inside its shrunken eye sockets glowed two pupils of a bright emergency yellow, and the air around the miscreation vibrated with deadly energy.

The mountain man raised his pistol and dispensed four slugs into the ghoul’s torso as it came towards him, but it didn’t stop, latching onto the struggling man and snapping its sharpened teeth into his suited shoulder with a hungry shriek. The soldier let out a scream as radiation burns started spreading all over from his exposed shoulder, sped up by the reek of radiation being emitted by the feral ghoul.

His hand shaking, the gas-masked mountain man put a bullet in the ghoul’s head just as its jaws closed around his neck. The ghoul collapsing on him, dead, and the man groaned, his crimson blood blooming into a puddle on the hard, dusty stone floor as the radiation quickly overcame his body. Horrendous burns covered the man head to toe, rendering him almost as inhuman as the ghoul lying on top of his corpse.

Radio static sounded as the soldier’s walkie-talkie came to life. “Kingston to Evers, report.”

The room was silent except for the cryogenic chamber hissing as white clouds billowed from the open lid, and its humming, which was growing ever louder as it slowly warmed its insides.

“Evers, report. Did you find something on seven?”

The soldier’s body gurgled, post-mortem processes having started.

“Evers! Rep-“

The radio broke off as a shout came through the radio, followed by gunfire. The transmission ended and the room once again grew quiet.

A hand moved up to splay against the glass of the cryogenic chamber’s lid, limply sliding down the glass with a squeak. It fell before being raised again to push against the glass, joined by its twin. The lid stuck slightly before starting to whine its way open.

Pale and naked, Clarke squinted, her vision cloudy. She gripped onto the sides of her chamber and tentatively stepped out, her movements awkward and jerky. However, her legs weren’t cooperating after being in cold storage for so long, and she misstepped, falling to her hands and knees with a soft grunt.

Her hands were suddenly wet and Clarke blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness and dark spots from her vision. Goose bumps broke out on her skin as her body caught up to the changes in temperature; and she shivered, gritting her teeth at the overwhelming sensations of consciousness.

Her vision finally cleared after a minute and she looked up, the two mutilated corpses directly in front of her, her hands sticky with the mountain man’s blood.

Clarke screamed.

Her heart flew up into her throat and the blood audibly rushed through her head as Clarke scrambled back to sit against the cryogenic pod, staring wide-eyed in horror at the scene in front of her.

Beyond the mountain man and the ghoul on top of him, the room replicated a scene out of a nightmare. Chunks of the ceiling littered the floor, a layer of dirt and grime on everything. Skeletons, full and partial, some with white tattered coats, were scattered around the room, one poking out from underneath a section of the stone ceiling. The lights flickered, many torn down and hanging limply from a fraying cord. They swung ever so slightly from side to side, illuminating splotches of dried blood on the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. Two more dead ghouls lay in the corner, withered, their brittle skin stretched tight over protruding bones.

Clarke turned her head, her breath steaming out in white bursts, to focus her eyes on the other cryogenic chambers in the room.

They were all broken. Every one of them. Both skeletons and mostly decomposed corpses inhabited them, their jaws wide open as if the occupants had died screaming for help. Clarke exhaled shakily, swallowing hard. Her eyes dropped back down to the bodies in front of her.

Although she was groggy, common sense told her not to touch either corpse, but she stared at the ghoul, fixated on its grotesque, melted appearance. Her eyes traveled to the radiation burned face of the man, visible through his gas mask. The blonde’s lips downturned and she suddenly looked down at her own arms and hands. Aside from the blood, they were normal – no sign of radiation burns or radiation sickness. It was odd, she decided, until a small hiss caught her attention.

Clarke turned and stood, crossing her arms across her chest as she was still quite naked and too caught up in the surrealism of the situation. She craned her head around the back of the cryogenic chamber, identifying where the hissing was coming from. A tube leading into the pod whistled with a tiny leak, and Clarke followed it with her eyes to a filtered, constantly recycling oxygen tank.

The tank with its leak in the line had filtered minute amounts of radiation through her otherwise radiation-proof chamber for the entire length of her cryogenation – she had gained enough of a tolerance while frozen to become immune, almost like a radiation vaccine.

Her mind still struggling to catch up to her situation and the overwhelming odds that had allowed her to survive, Clarke leaned against the chamber, taking deep breaths and trying to calm herself. She glanced yet again down at the dead soldier, her brow furrowed.

If a man got in here, then she could probably get out. Clarke raised her head, her features a picture of determination. Her first order of business was to get the hell out of this tomb, and then she could dwell on the million questions racing through her mind, as well as the panic that was lingering just under the surface.

With a goal now, Clarke stood up straight and tried to ignore the ghastly features underfoot as she moved to find the clothes she had abandoned so long time ago. She succeeded partially, finding her jeans, tee-shirt, and sweatshirt. They were extremely dusty, but still wearable. The blond then paused, squinting in the dim room and did a visual sweep of the room for underwear. After a minute, Clarke sighed in defeat.

Commando it was.

She pulled on her jeans and shirt, wincing slightly at the stiffness in her joints and noticing that they both fit a lot looser than she remembered. For a moment, Clarke cuddled her sweatshirt in her arms, inhaling deeply. Her eyes fluttered shut; it smelled familiar, and she felt her heart rate decrease ever so slightly at the comforting scent. The moment passed, and she pulled it over her head, feeling about ten times better with its familiar texture settled on her skin.

Clarke’s eyes swept down to the floor and she felt a minor thrill as she found a small flashlight. After picking it up and discovering that it still worked, she swung the circle of light around the room, looking for her shoes and anything else of use.

The bins that she barely remembered were shoved in the corner of the room, and Clarke moved over to them before diving in, leaning over at the waist and into the depths of the plastic barrels.

She gasped, having found her backpack. Pulling back with it, Clarke tugged at the rusty zippers and dug through it. Almost everything was still inside it, including her sketchbook, but her phone was notably missing. With a slight frown, Clarke returned to the bins, raking through the remnants of clothes.

She pulled out a large, almost-black military blazer and held it up. Numerous sparkling medals and colored bars were floodlit in the beam of her flashlight, and Clarke exhaled deeply upon seeing the four silver stars on the shoulders and the surname on the nameplate: CARVER.

She unpinned the nameplate and the hanging medals of heroism from the jacket, biting her bottom lip in concentration, before moving over to the cryogenic chamber that she remembered being the General’s. His skeleton was in pieces in the bottom of the chamber, the broken, jagged glass of the chamber glinting in the glow of her flashlight. Clarke carefully laid the medals and nameplate next to his skeleton in respect.

Straightening up, Clarke pulled the blazer on but left it unbuttoned, moving her hood so that it laid on the back of the jacket. It was a little large, but the chamber was cold and she had no idea what was awaiting her outside of the complex. She also pulled on a pair of mismatched, hole-y socks that she found along with the blazer, but was still missing shoes.

Clarke moved towards the door but her foot bumped something metal and hard. Swearing softly, she glanced down and found the shiny black metal of the mountain man’s assault rifle, lying a few yards away from where the man had died. Clarke picked it up, the heavy weapon taking a few seconds to get used to. She struggled for a second to check the magazine, having not had that much experience with rifles in her few years of JROTC that took place so very long ago.

The magazine was close to full, and Clarke pursed her lips before walking over to the mountain man and kicking his pack away from him so as to not touch him. She took all the ammunition she found, as well as the pistol lying next to his outstretched, burned hand. Clarke swung the rifle’s strap around herself and tucked the pistol in the back of her jeans, starting to feel semi-prepared to face whatever, or whoever, she was going to meet outside. She tucked the forward-facing flashlight in the blazer’s breast pocket.

The hesitant, determined, now 118 year-old walked through the vault holding the rifle to her chest, ready to pull the trigger if need be. There was nothing in the entrance way worthy of noticing besides the open vault door. A blinking yellow light told her that it shouldn’t have been opened.

Clarke moved towards it, her foot kicking something which skidded across the floor. It was a clipboard, a stack of yellowed, dirty paper secured on it. Out of curiosity, the blond picked it up and flipped through it, finding what she unconsciously knew she was looking for. In black type and barely legible, she read:

LIEUTENANT CLARK GRIFFIN, 0-3 USN HR: BLOND EYE: BLUE HEIGHT: 5’6’’

Clarke exhaled lowly, the sheer amount of luck that had transpired in her being cryogenically frozen absolutely blowing her mind. She dropped the clipboard with a hollow bang, steeling herself mentally at how completely surreal it all was.

The sole survivor of Vault R stepped up and out of the vault door, her foot coming down on a rattling bone. She jumped at the noise, her head snapping down to see what she had stepped on, and sharply reprimanded herself for not watching where was putting her stockinged feet. Her eyes lit up, however, at finding that the skeleton attached was wearing a pair of black, military-issue combat boots. She instantly tugged them off of its bony feet and sat down to pull them on her own, finding the surprise of a small boot knife hidden in the right boot. They fit pretty well, all things considered, and a small grin found its way to Clarke’s lips. 

So far, kind of good?

Clarke made her way to the dark, steep staircase that she remembered practically falling down in the past, and began to climb. By the thirtieth step, she was out of breath, and cursed. Her stomach growled, and she swallowed down a bout of nausea. Her body was protesting the complete lack of food; in frozen stasis, she had been fine, but now it was readily apparent that she was malnourished.

Groaning internally, the blond continued up the stairs, gasping when she reached the top, and the elevator shaft.

It was empty – no elevator, just a dark, empty shaft. “Great,” Clarke murmured, her heart sinking.

A shadow at the corner of the shaft moved, and she stepped back, ready to blast it into oblivion. However, it was simply a rope swinging slightly from side to side, and Clarke’s eyes followed it down to where it ended and attached to a harness and two ascenders – presents from the radiated mountain man.

With no other option, the former military brat swung the rifle around to her back and buckled herself into the harness, trying to remember the ins and outs of the climbing walls that she had encountered long ago in JROTC. She made sure that the ascenders were attached the right way and wouldn’t come off of the rope before shakily beginning to climb. It was a difficult and Clarke’s footholds slipped twice, the ascenders stopping her fall but her arm muscles screaming in dissent.

She estimated that she had gone maybe four or five stories when she reached the end of the rope.

“Fuck,” Clarke whispered, her voice crackling due to disuse. Clinging onto the ascenders, she twisted around, trying to angle the flashlight in her breast pocket around the pitch black shaft. The rope was threaded through the floor’s sliding doors and Clarke shifted, securing her footholds before letting go of an ascender and trying to push the door open. It slid an inch but stopped and Clarke swore again, swinging lightly as she thought of a solution.

An idea hit her, and Clarke reached down to pull out the knife that she had found in the boots. She slid it in the crack of the door and pushed on the handle, using it as a fulcrum to force the door open. It worked, and Clarke shoved her elbow in the door to hold it open before pulling herself up and shouldering the door open more to get through it. 

Breathing hard, Clarke slid the knife back in its sheath and leaned down, placing her hands on her knees in rest as the elevator door slid closed behind her. Her biceps were killing her, and her nerves were frayed from the hard, dark climb. She unbuckled the harness and stepped out of it.

Clarke straightened and glanced around, finding the universal sign for stairs around the corner from the elevator with the number ‘3’. With her exit route in mind, she looked forward towards what appeared to be living quarters. Clarke shifted the assault rifle to her front and held it ready before venturing forward.

She had only gone into the next room – a kitchen - when the overpowering smell of blood reached her nostrils. Clarke gingerly moved forward, her finger hovering over the trigger of the rifle, and found a scene rivaling that of the vault that she had just come from.

Four more men in dark green hazmat suits and masks were strewn around a large room filled with multiple bunk beds and metal footlockers. They were identical to the original, their radiation burns severe, but two were almost unrecognizable due to the gory state they were in; they were practically ripped apart, their entrails spilling out sluggishly onto the grimy linoleum floor as if they had been dug out.

They were also incredibly fresh, and only two ghouls lay dead next to them, bullet wounds weeping with glowing, slimy blood.

Clarke quietly searched the men for ammunition, packing her backpack full of rounds and magazines until it weighed heavily on her shoulders. Her ears were perked for anything stirring in the background.

A weird noise did catch her attention and Clarke turned towards a doorway off of the room. A bug the size of a soccer ball – a winged cockroach, it looked like – stood in it. Its antennae quivered before it suddenly scurried forwards towards Clarke, flying at her when it got within five feet. It let out a high pitched battle hiss, its wings beating frantically.

The blond, her finger on the trigger of her assault rifle, yelped and shot the gun haphazardly on instinct. The single bullet hit its body square on and it exploded in a mess of greenish yellow slime.

“So, that’s a development,” Clarke whispered, grimacing at the sight and smell of the dead, clearly mutated bug. She rubbed the top of her boots on the carpet in disgust, wiping off the roach’s slimy insides.

A feral, inhuman shriek abruptly sounded from the next room and Clarke’s hair stood on end. Acting on complete instinct, she turned tail and ran back the way she came, the assault rifle thumping against her chest. She slammed into the door for the stairs, fumbling with the handle, and heard the now multiple blood-curdling screams getting closer. Clarke’s heart hammered as she barged through the door, then found a piece of pipe in the debris and shoved it through the handles. Horrific, gory death avoided, she started taking the stairs two at a time like a bat ascending out of the depths of hell.

* * *

 

The way out and up to the surface was not an easy one. The once massive cavern was reduced to a cave, and was covered in foot high water in parts. Clarke had waded through it to the long, dark tunnel leading to the outside entrances. However, instead of being able to fit a bus as it once had, it had suffered the same fate and was now a tight squeeze.

Clarke fit, but barely, scraping herself on jagged rocks several times on the long crawl out. She came to the end of the tunnel and faced a loose rock wall – apparently, she thought, the mountain men had found another way inside. She took a deep breath before lightly kicking it down; the rocks poured outward as Clarke Griffin stepped out into the world that she no longer knew.

It was really… bright. And smelled different, weird… changed.

It was mid-morning and the sun was shining on her face, making her squint. The wind blew through her wavy blond locks and birds sung in the distance, their songs no longer cheery, but haunting.

Clarke looked out upon her new world. It was completely unrecognizable. What she remembered was no longer there, from the multitude of cars that had been clustered by the entrance, to the roads; they were all gone, probably swallowed by the earth. All that was left was untamed wilderness.

“How long…” Clarke started, then stopped, a knot forming in her throat. She shook her head and resolved to keep a positive outlook. It must have only been a few years, she reasoned. The bombs must have just hit close by and changed the land really quickly. That could happen, right?

That was what she was going to go with for now, because her main objective now was to get to Mount Weather. She would worry about details after she was safe.

Clarke tried to remember where Mount Weather was in relation to Raven Rock, and deduced where the sun had risen in order to set out in the right direction. “Mount Weather, Mom. Mount Weather, Mom,” Clarke repeated as a mantra as she started off into the woods.

She walked for a few hours, her hands sweating in the summer heat as they lightly gripped the cool metal of her rifle. Clarke had found some berries that resembled what she remembered as being edible, and that lucky find was tiding her over; but still, she was exhausted and her stomach rumbled unpleasantly. She had seen no signs of anyone, or of a human presence whatsoever, and was extremely unnerved.

“There should be someone, something,” Clarke murmured. The straps of her backpack dug uncomfortably into her shoulders from the weight of the ammunition she was carrying; she shifted, her morale and optimism starting to sink.

“Mount Weather, Mom. Mount Weather, Mom.”

Clarke took another few steps, trying to keep an eye out for anything weird or any sign of people.

A twig snapped and a small collection of birds took off from the trees, soaring out of flight. Clarke followed them with her eyes before scanning the area and up the trees, suddenly uneasy that she was being watched.

There was a rustle from behind her and Clarke whirled around, brandishing her rifle, her finger now on the trigger. “Hello?” She called out shakily, trying to sound confident but failing.

_Whoosh!_

A bona fide arrow came out of nowhere and sank into the wood of the tree a foot away from Clarke. Without any time to come to terms with the concept of a _bow and arrow_ being used as a weapon in this century, she stared at the feathers in its tail for a split second before hearing the _whoosh_ of a second arrow. Clarke instinctively took off, running away in the direction that she had been going.

Clarke practically flew through the brush, her legs growing tired quickly after her adventurous escape from the vault. Adrenaline pumped in her head and her backpack’s weight kept slamming onto her lower back with every stride, but she did not stop.

She did not see the drop off until it was too late, and Clarke spilt over the edge, falling forward and landing on her side. She started rolling down the hill, her vision blurring in mere seconds.

Halfway down the hill, she heard a _crack!_ and pain shot up her right leg like a red-hot poker. Clarke yelled in agony, tears springing to her eyes, and briefly passed out mid-roll.

She landed on her back at the bottom of a large hill and opened her eyes, blinking up at the blue sky, its clouds white, puffy, and without a care in the world. Consciousness was fleeting, however, and Clarke heard more than saw something – or someone – come up to her.

Through blurred vision that was fading in and out, she saw what looked like a blackened skull mask with dark and angry – yet curious – eyes looking down at her through the skull’s orbits.

Clarke’s new world faded to black as she fainted again.


	3. Black and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry for the wait, things have been crazy. Hope you enjoy!

Her shirt was riding up, the texture of smooth velvet caressing her abdomen. It moved beneath her, up and down, and Clarke frowned as she came to, pain spiking up from her broken leg.

Blue eyes opened and Clarke found the earth moving rapidly underneath her. Green melded with brown and she squeezed her eyes shut again, nausea working its way through her. It was not helped by the smells surrounding her – a mix of a horrible mustiness and the scent of dead animals.

The horse’s legs beat the packed dirt again and again as it sped forward, forcing Clarke’s bound body to bounce along awkwardly. A vicious headache pounded in her forehead and the hard edge of a saddle dug into her side. She ached, bruised and blooded by her fall and on the edge of passing out again.

Clarke groaned loudly as the awkward bouncing continued, wiggling her tightly bound hands that hung down in front of her face. Ropes dug into her shoulders, back, and legs, and she realized that she was expertly tied down to the horse and going nowhere.

_“Shop op, maunon,”_ a gruff voice sounded from above her. Clarke opened her mouth to protest at the sound of the strange language, but another bout of nausea rose up through her and she shut it a second later, grimacing at how absolutely awful she felt. She tried to work at her bindings again, but the movement of the horse and the quality of the knots were impossible to work against.

The blond hated giving up, but right now there was nothing Clarke could do to ease her predicament without causing her more pain and the probable wrath of her captor.

Time passed and Clarke reluctantly dozed off, lulled to sleep by the movement of the horse and the desire to forget her predicament.

* * *

 

Clarke slowly blinked open her eyes many hours later, finding darkness. Somehow, she had properly fallen asleep, her exhaustion overpowering the pain that emanated throughout her body. She shifted and the pain spiked up from her leg, reminding her that it was still very broken.

She startled at the realization that the bane of her existence for the past nine hours – the damn horse – was at a stand still. She jerked her head up as much as she could at the sound of voices speaking a foreign yet somewhat familiar language.

Rough hands grabbed at Clarke’s legs and worked at the ropes securing her to the horse. As soon as her legs were free, she kicked out at her captor and connected with a hard shoulder, earning a grunt. In retaliation, she was unceremoniously shoved forward and slid towards the ground and off of the equine, ducking forward and landing hard on her back after performing an awkward somersault in an effort not to snap her neck.

Clarke yelped as her broken leg met the ground but shot up seconds later, trying to get up. A heavy, fur-booted foot came down on her chest, shoving her back into the dirt. She gazed up at her captor in anger, her eyes widening upon finally seeing his odd, otherworldly appearance.

His skull mask was unbuckled, hanging down around his thick neck. Long, dark hair swayed in messy braids and dreadlocks around his head, which was heavily tattooed with black swirling designs. His skin was rough, dotted with scars; and his clothes were ragged and thin with cage-like armor buckled on over them. A thick sword hung off of his belt and laid against his muscular thigh. The smell coming off of him, now that Clarke was more lucid, made her upper lip curl in disgust and wonder.

“Who _are_ you?” she murmured, her breath catching in her throat. The pit of her stomach filled with anxiety and dread as her eyes met his.

The grounder removed his foot before reaching down and grabbing the rope around Clarke’s wrists, suddenly yanking her up into a sitting position. He snarled, “ _gyon op_!”

“What?”

“ _Gyon op_!” He yanked on the rope again and Clarke understood what he wanted. She gestured down at her leg with an exasperated and pained expression.

“My leg is _broken_.”

The grounder scoffed but then swooped down and grabbed Clarke, throwing her over his shoulder. She let out a yelp and started to beat her bound hands against his broad back, but to no avail.

Campfires moved past in the corner of her eye and the voices got louder, their tones becoming curious as her captor walked past. He ducked under the flap of a canvas tent, its fabric brushing over Clarke’s back.

The man stopped and Clarke only had a second before she was being once again unceremoniously dropped to the ground. She yelled, again, at her injured leg being jostled and slowly sat up in order to get it out from underneath her. A single tear ran down her dirty cheek, borne out of pain and frustration. She wiped her face on her shoulder, gritting her teeth.

The tent was furnished with fur rugs and a large wooden table scattered with maps. Clarke stared around her in wonder at what looked like the movie set for a fantasy film.

“ _Chon dison bilaik?”_ A sharp voice questioned. Clarke looked up through her messy blond mane and met the eyes of a terrifying and intriguing figure. She wore black leather and fur, a large black hood laying on her back. Dirty blond hair with darker highlights framed her face; and her cheekbones were sharp, as if sculpted by the gods. Black kohl ringed her dark eyes which stared into Clarke’s.

“ _Ai gaf in ai op heda. Em laik Maunon, em don gada in emo fayogon. Ai don dig in emon raun seken maun-de,”_ the man asserted, his back straightening. He looked into the woman’s eyes, his own holding a small challenge.

Clarke’s brow furrowed, trying to figure out context – the conversation was definitely about her, but that was as far as she could make out. Nothing made sense.

“ _Heda nou hir nau. Ai gada in hedplei kom taim em kom op,”_ the woman responded curtly. She stared at the man and Clarke leaned back at the intensity of her expression. She continued, “ _Yu don dig in emon raun seken maun-de? Nou Maun kom Weatha?”_

Clarke sat up straighter at the word, paying closer attention. “Mount Weather,” she breathed out softly.

Kohl-ringed eyes found Clarke’s once again at the name, staring down at her. The fierce-looking woman studied Clarke’s appearance for a second before refocusing on the man. “ _Em nou bilaik Maunon. Maunon nou kik raun we kom Maun-de.”_

Both sets of dark eyes studied Clarke now, who was confused, frustrated, and fighting the urge to start yelling at them. “Who the hell are you people?” she voiced vehemently.

They ignored her and continued talking, their voices growing more pointed and argumentative. Clarke tuned out somewhat, her eyes darting around the tent to try to figure out some kind of exit strategy. She bit her lip, her gaze darting down to her feet, and with the smallest hint of a smile realized that her captor had not taken the knife in her boot.

Raised voices brought her back to the situation at hand.

“ ** _Ai_** _don dig in emon! Ai beda laik de won lid in emon fou heda_!”

“ _Yu_ …” the woman began dangerously, drawing her sword out of its sheath, “ _na laik de won chon na wan op._ ”

The deadliness of her tone coursed through Clarke as the black-furred woman suddenly moved forward in a blur. The man was too slow, and an arc of crimson blood flew through the air as Anya’s sword cut his throat open. He dropped next to Clarke, bleeding out onto the soft fur rug.

Clarke gaped and leaned back, her pulse hammering in her throat at the sudden turn of events. Anya wiped the blood from her sword before sheathing it and taking a step towards the blond. Clarke squeaked and tried to shuffle back in fear, but her hands were still bound tight.

Anya stopped and Clarke stared up at her, swallowing hard. They exchanged gazes for a few seconds before Anya’s look softened somewhat.

“Who are you?”

Clarke gaped yet again at the fact that the strange, deadly woman spoke English. “Clarke,” she gasped out. “My name is Clarke. Thank god, I’m so glad you speak English, this is so weir-”

“Where are you from, Clarke?" 

Clarke opened her mouth to answer, then stopped, unsure how to answer. “I – I’m from Washington D.C. but I… was in Raven Rock? I think I was frozen? Who are you? Do you know where Mount Weather is? I’m supposed to go there I think.”

Anya’s hand went to her sword again and Clarke shrunk back. “So you _are_ a mountain man…? What you are saying makes no sense, Clarke.” She took a step forward, her hand not leaving the hilt of her sword.

“Wait, I, please, I have no idea who you are or where I am; I was underground in this vault because of the bombs and there were dead people and dead _things_ and my mom is supposed to be at Mount Weather and I just want to get to her. Please,” Clarke pleaded, her eyes starting to grow misty as desperation set into her tone.

Anya pursed her lips, studying Clarke. The blond seemed sincere and her wide-eyed, scared-shitless look was definitely real. Her hand left the hilt of her sword and she rolled her shoulders back with a sigh. “He was right,” Anya started, glancing down at Clarke’s very dead captor, “Heda _should_ see you.”

Before Clarke could say anything, Anya yelled out a command in the strange language and two burly guards walked into the tent and grabbed her under the arms, lifting her up and starting to drag her out of the tent. “Wait!” she yelled as her feet bumped against the ground. “I don’t know _anything_!”

She struggled, but it was in vain; and Clarke fell limp against them, tired of the confusion, the surreal weirdness, and the pain – which ricocheted back up as they cut the bindings on her wrists before dropping her through a grate in the ground.

Clarke groaned and rolled over onto her side into the fetal position. Her leg throbbed and she started crying silently, the saline mixing with the blood and dirt on her face. Her eyes fluttered open and she took in a stained and broken tile wall – it looked like a D.C. area train station. She shut them again and curled up tighter on the hard floor.

An hour passed and blue eyes shot open. They burned with a cold, icy fury and Clarke sat up, her mouth in a thin line. Her gaze shot to the locked gate that trapped her in the train station cell and she paused before starting to dig through her pockets.

A minute later, Clarke held a bobby pin in her hand. She bent it into the proper shape then dragged herself over to the gate and onto her knees, silently thanking Raven for teaching her how to do this on one less-than-sober night many years ago.

It took five minutes, but Clarke celebrated silently when the lock opened with a _click._ The first true smile in a long time graced Clarke’s lips and she grabbed onto the gate to pull herself up.

The stairs were hard, but Clarke dragged herself up, determined to leave. As she reached the top she reached down and pulled out the knife in her boot, holding it ready. With a deep breath, the blond out of her own time pushed open the door to the makeshift prison slowly.

It was in the wee hours of the morning and still dark out. The small settlement or village or whatever it was, was quiet with only a handful of patrolling guards. Clarke tested her leg with a small step and cried out softly, swallowing the sound in the back of her throat. She ignored the pain and hobbled forward, trying to move quickly, her knife at the ready.

She ducked between tents and makeshift buildings, trying her best to avoid the guards. She stopped to rest her leg in a darkened strip between a large tent and a smaller one, stifling a deep groan and closing her eyes. Lights danced in front of her eyelids, but Clarke knew she had to keep going.

Voices caused her eyes to open – they were coming her way. She looked over her shoulder, back the way she came, and saw moving shadows. “Fuck,” Clarke whispered. She paused, her pulse quickening, before taking a chance - dropping and rolling underneath the canvas of the large tent to her right.

Turned towards the tent, Clarke sighed in relief, having successfully dodged the guards, and shakily got to her feet.

The cold steel of a blade found its way to her throat as a body silently pressed into hers from behind.

“Drop the knife.”

Clarke’s eyes closed and her stomach dropped at the feminine, yet deadly, voice in her ear. It was confident and assertive, but sounded on the sleepy side. She paused, and the blade at her throat pressed closer to her soft, easily cuttable skin. Remembering how Anya had so easily slit the throat of the man who captured her, Clarke’s shoulders dropped in defeat and she let go of the knife in her hand. It fell to the ground with a soft _thud_.

“You must be the one I was told about.” The blade did not move.

Clarke tried to keep her breathing even despite her pulse quickening. “And you must be ‘ _heda_ ’, whatever that is.”

“I am,” the voice answered softly. The blade shifted slightly, its edge ghosting against Clarke’s skin and causing goosebumps to raise on her arms. The paralyzing voice continued, “Your leg is broken. It looks like it hurts.”

Clarke said nothing, just swallowed and tried to remain steady on her feet.

The figure behind her shifted, as did the knife, and her bad leg was suddenly kicked forward. Crying out, Clarke fell to her knees, her teeth grit and showing at the pain. Her long mane of blond hair was grabbed roughly and then pulled back, the knife finding its way back to rest against her throat. Her eyes closed, Clarke’s pulse thudded in her ears as she started to see red.

Everything _hurt_ , physically and emotionally.

All she had wanted was to figure out what had happened. All she had wanted was to reunite with her mom in Mount Weather.

Clarke had reached the end of her rope.

“Who are you?”

Blue eyes blinked open, alight with fury.

“Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

She suddenly shoved herself backwards, catching the body behind her in surprise as she got away from the knife at her throat. The hand in her hair tried to hold on, but Clarke yelled and swung her elbow back, catching the woman in the side of her abdomen and causing her to let go with a grunt. She darted forward and tried to get to her feet again, her eyes trained on the opening of the tent.

As she got to her feet, a weight suddenly slammed against her back as the other woman tackled Clarke to the ground. The blond fell with a yelp but turned over quickly, acting on pure adrenaline. She struck out with her fist and felt it connect with bone before the other person clambered on top of her, straddling her hips.

Clarke fought like a wild thing, struggling to buck off the woman on top of her. She was all fists and nails and war cries, and got in a good scratch down the other woman’s face.

It was over in seconds when the brunette on top of her grabbed her wrists and held them in an iron grip above her head. Clarke’s chest heaved as her eyes focused on the face above hers, her gaze alight in anger before changing to slight shock.

The woman on top of her was a girl – her own age. Her clothes were mussed from the fight, but were clearly sleep clothes – tight, dark shorts and a tank top that showed off heavily defined collarbones. Long, brown hair swung down in intricate braids around her face, framing a jawline that could cut glass. Aristocratic features marred by a bloody scratch down one side glared down at Clarke, pinning her down not just with her weight and strength, but with an angry, commanding look from gorgeous emerald eyes.

This girl was _stunning_ , and Clarke inhaled sharply, her sapphire eyes wide in shock.

This girl also let go of one of Clarke’s wrists and punched the blond hard in the temple.

Green eyes were the last thing that Clarke saw as her new world descended into an unconscious darkness yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “Chon dison bilaik?” Who’s this?
> 
> “Ai gaf in ai op heda. Em laik Maunon. Em don gada in emo fayogon. Ai don dig in emon raun seken maun-de.” I need to see Heda. She is a mountain man, she had guns. I found her by the second mountain.
> 
> “Heda nou hir nau. Ai gada in hedplei kom taim em kom op.” Heda is not here right now. I am in charge until she comes.
> 
> “Yu don dig in emon raun seken maun-de? Nou Maun kom Weatha?” You found her by the second mountain? Not Mount Weather?
> 
> “Em nou bilaik Maunon. Maunon nou kik raun we kom Maun-de.” She is not a mountain man. Mountain men can’t live outside the mountain.
> 
> “Ai don dig in emon! Ai beda laik de won lid in emon fou heda!” I found her! I should be the one to take her before Heda!
> 
> “Yu… na laik de won chon na wan op.” You will be the one to die.
> 
> (I'm pretty new at Trigedasleng, corrections are welcome!)


	4. Crazy, She Calls Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked pretty hard to get this out asap, but it will be the last update for at least a week and a half (the first draft of my Master's thesis is due next week!)
> 
> Thanks for all your kudos and comments!

“I knew we should have sent them with power armor. I apologize, sir.”

“We did not know the ferals would be that strong in Raven Rock, Cage. What did the retrieval team find?”

“No survivors. But we were right about the vault. Most of the pods were broken, but one was intact, and it was open.”

“Open?”

“Yes, Dad. There’s a survivor.” Cage gleamed, the excitement plain on his face.

“How do you know?”

“One of our eyebots recorded footage of a figure exiting the mountain through one of the tunnels. We don’t have their face, but it looks like a blond female,” Cage reported. “We are sending out more bots to the area to try to find her and bring her in.”

“Mmm. I see,” Dante murmured. He leaned back in his chair, fixing his son with a look that betrayed no emotion.

Cage took a step forward, gesturing excitedly with his hands. “Dad… this could be it. This could allow us above ground. Finally, we could achieve what we’ve wanted all along, since your grandfather: resettling the surface with a pure, untainted population from our people and the maintained vaults.”

“Do not get ahead of yourself, Cage. If this woman is our answer to finally living above ground, we need to approach it carefully. Will you be sending out any of your… soldiers?”

“Once we know where she is, and if she isn’t alone, yes. I’m concerned that she could have easily been picked up by a grounder.”

“Let me know if there are any developments, Cage.”

“Yes, sir.” Cage turned to leave, a small smile painting his lips.

“And Cage?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work,” Dante praised. “I must admit, this is promising.”  
  
“Thanks, Dad. I think this is it. I really do.” Cage grinned widely, before continuing. ”The Enclave will _finally_ restore humanity to what it should have always been.” 

* * *

 

Something was pulling at her leg.

Clarke mumbled nonsense and shifted, lolling her pounding head to the side and wondering why she could barely move. Everything seemed to hurt.

“ _Fis emon op, Nyko.”_

_“Sha, Heda.”_

The blond groaned as something continued to manipulate her broken leg, but gently.

“ _Chon bilaik em?”_

_“Ai nou get in.”_

Clarke blinked her eyes open groggily. She sat on the floor inside of a tent, her back to a pole. Her arms stretched behind her back, and she pulled at her hands, which were bound at the wrists and effectively restraining her. In front of her sat a large man, his brown hair long, dreaded, and held back from his face which bore a large tribal tattoo. His calloused hands were gentle on Clarke’s leg as he removed her boot and sock, much to her pained annoyance. He then grabbed a knife; Clarke made a panicked sound deep in her throat and tried to move away.

“ _Nou._ Don’t move. You will hurt it more,” Nyko warned. He started to cut away at Clarke’s jeans, revealing a swollen and banged up leg.

Clarke relaxed the tiniest bit. “It’s a bit late for that,” she bit out quietly. A quiet scoff caught her attention and the blonde’s eyes found the girl who had knocked her out hours ago standing quietly a few feet behind the man, her arms crossed over her chest.

She was clearly important, Clarke thought as she studied the brunette. Her dark clothes were regal, dotted with shiny silver fastenings and decorations; multiple straps laid over her chest and a red velvet sash draped over one shoulder, extending down her back to pool on the floor. Black war paint dripped down across her eyes and over her cheekbones, making her look even more fierce. Curious, forest-green eyes watched Clarke; in between and just above them sat a small wheeled ornament, the significance of which was lost on the blond.

Blue eyes dipped back up from studying Lexa to find the brunette staring at her before a twinge in her leg brought them back down to Nyko. He laid two wooden splints along her femur and started binding them tightly to her leg with leather straps. Clarke bit her lip to hold back a whimper of pain – right now, appearing weak in front of this woman did not seem wise.

Nyko soon finished and Clarke leaned back against the pole, her leg splinted and starting to feel better already. The large man in front of her picked up a bowl next to him and held it up to Clarke’s lips. She kept them sealed and eyed Nyko, incredibly wary.

“Drink. It will help the pain and lessen the chance of shock.”

“Pretty sure the shock has already happened,” Clarke murmured lowly. She shot a look up to the still-staring brunette woman before sighing and acquiescing, allowing Nyko to tip the medicine into her mouth. With a grimace at the taste, Clarke swallowed, and Nyko began to gather his medical supplies before taking his leave.

Clarke rested her head back against the pole as her eyes fluttered close, already starting to feel slightly fuzzy and much better. A throat cleared and she looked up to find Lexa closer, towering over her, all sharp lines and deadly gracefulness. The scratch down the right side of her face shone with an ointment of some sort in the dim light of the tent.

The brunette was even more intimidating up close. Clarke swallowed hard and pulled at her bindings. “Is this necessary?” she asked, shrugging her shoulders to indicate the restraints.

“Given that you escaped, avoided my guards, and came into my quarters with a knife, yes,” Lexa drawled. She pulled up a small wooden chair and sat down in front of Clarke, crossing her legs smoothly. “I do not know who you are, _Clarke_. You could have been sent to kill me,” she continued, her tone laced with the slightest hint of an accusation.

“I don’t even know who the hell you are,” Clarke protested, thumping her good leg off of the ground in anger. She sighed, her shoulders dropping. “I don’t know anything. That’s what I told the other woman that asked me questions, after she killed the guy that brought me here.”

“Mm. Yes, Anya did say you sounded honest. But, you also had guns,” Lexa pointed out, her brow raising.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Lexa frowned in confusion and Clarke rolled her eyes before trying to explain. “Listen, okay? I swear, I’m not trying to kill you.”

“So you say.” Lexa shifted, leaning back in her chair. “Give me a good reason why I should not kill you.”

“Well, given that you just had someone splint my leg, I’m going to guess that you weren’t planning on killing me anytime soon,” Clarke shot out, a challenge evident in her eyes. She stared up at Lexa, trying not to shrink under the narrowing gaze of the Commander.

“I needed you conscious and lucid in order to question you.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

They stared at one another, neither giving an inch even though Clarke knew that Lexa held all the power. Obviously, she was the one tied up.

“It is not very wise to antagonize me in your situation, Clarke.”

“I don’t have much to lose,” Clarke spit out with vitriol. “I don’t know what year it is, where I am, what happened to humanity… I don’t know anything. For all I know my family and friends are dead.” Her face fell and she sunk back into her bindings, lowering her eyes to the floor. Her lower lip quivered just the slightest bit, drawing Lexa’s attention. She had been trying so hard not to think about it. She had pushed all the questions out of her mind in a blind attempt to get to Mount Weather without any distractions, with a pure focus on survival. Then, and only then could she find some answers. But the detour Clarke was currently on had postponed the pure ambiguity of her situation for far too long; and now, there was no avoiding the dark thoughts that started circling through her mind.

The world had definitely changed. Several decades had probably gone by, Clarke reasoned. But it couldn’t be that far into the future. It seemed impossible. Or did it? Had centuries gone by? Was her mom dead and buried? Were her friends the same? Was the tiny sliver of hope that she held in her chest just a false prophet?

Was she completely alone in this strange new fallen-out world?

“Start at the beginning.”

“What?” Clarke breathed out, broken out of her thoughts. She made eye contact with the stoic girl sitting across from her.

Lexa nodded, her expression softer. “Just start at the beginning.”

“Um, alright. I told you, my name is Clarke. I’m… I was on my way home to D.C. from Boston when the bombs started falling. My mom – she was with the President, she told me to go to this place – somewhere that I would be safe. I went there and I was told to go down to this vault and before I knew it I was in a cryo chamber.”

“A what?” Lexa looked extremely confused. The blond was speaking pure nonsense, but it was genuinely said.

“It’s a machine to… to keep people alive for a long time.”

“How is that possible?”

Clarke shrugged to the best of her bound ability. “Science.”

Lexa nodded slowly, although she had no idea what to make of most of this information.

“So you are saying that you have been alive a long time?”

Clarke exhaled slowly. “… yes. I think so. I don’t know, but I assume so. A lot has changed. Do you… do you know what the year is?” The blond swung her gaze up to look pleadingly at Lexa, withholding a grimace. She steeled herself to hear the answer.

“… no,” Lexa answered, her lips turning down slightly. “I am not sure what you mean,” she continued, looking away from Clarke for a moment. She clenched her jaw the tiniest bit and swallowed before looking back at the lost girl in front of her. “Where was this place that you were?”

“Oh.” Clarke bit her lip, disappointed with the answer. “It was Raven Rock. Site R. A big underground government facility but when I woke up a lot of it was just gone. It was collapsed. There were these _things_ , dead melted people that glowed and large cockroaches…”

“ _Ferghul_ and _radoch,_ ” Lexa said quietly. “What other things were there?”

“Dead men in vinyl green suits. They wore masks but they were all burned up. It was their guns that I took.”

“ _Maunon.”_

“Maunon?” Clarke repeated the word that she had heard directed towards her several times now. “What does that mean?”

“Mountain men. They hunt my people, and take them into their mountain. They do not come back out.”

“Wait, is this mountain, Mount Weather?”

“ _Maun kom Weatha_ , yes.”

“But,” Clarke scoffed slightly. “That’s impossible. That’s where my mom is supposed to be – that’s where they went with the President. That has to be where the rest of the government is,” Clarke argued, sitting up straighter. “That’s where I was going – I have to get there. Please, just, let me go. I need to find out what happened.”

Lexa exhaled deeply. “ _Ravock_ , the place that you say you were, has many stories in our lore. They are not good stories, Clarke. No one has ever been inside, and if _Maunon_ were there, they had a reason, and it is not a good sign.”

She stood up, rolling back her shoulders and fixing her sash. Clarke watched her rise and swallowed.

“I am _Heda_ of the twelve raider clans, Clarke _kom_ Griffin. You may call me Commander. I do not know if I believe your story, so I will send warriors inside _Ravock_ to see if it is true.”

Clarke frowned and hung her head, sagging forward against her bonds. Her shoulders dropped and she bit back a fair number of expletives knowing that they would do nothing to sway the regal leader in front of her.

Lexa cleared her throat, earning blue eyes raised toward her. “Until then, Clarke, you are my prisoner, and will be treated as such. Do not try to escape again.”

She turned to exit the tent, glancing over her shoulder back at the restrained blond before leaving. Clarke was soon left alone with her troubled thoughts, in particular a new one that wondered about this strange, beautiful leader into whose hands she had fallen.

* * *

 

A boot prodded Clarke’s good leg and she startled, having dozed off yet again due to both the medicine Nyko had given her and the unrelenting boredom of being tied to a pole for several hours. She whined quietly and quickly gained consciousness upon realizing that her arms were no longer behind her back. Blinking, Clarke found her hands loosely shackled together in front of her, allowing her much greater movement. However, she found a new addition: a thick chain attached to her good ankle; it looped around and was secured tightly to the pole behind her. She was, once again, going nowhere.

“Seriously?” Clarke asked sarcastically, finding green eyes watching her. A slight hint of a smirk lingered on the commander’s lips, and Clarke took her in. Her warpaint was gone, as was her sash. A knife was strapped to her thigh and a small book of some kind was tucked under her arm, but she looked casual – in her element.

Lexa gestured to the floor next to Clarke. “Eat. I am sure you’re hungry.”

Clarke looked to her side and found a small platter with a chunk of hard bread, some berries, and a few strips of some type of dried meat on it. Next to it stood a goblet full of water. She briefly considered refusing out of spite, but her stomach growled audibly on cue and Clarke dug in with reckless abandon.

Lexa once again gracefully sat as Clarke ate wildly. She pulled out the book that was under her arm and laid it on her lap, drumming her fingers on it. It was a thin, light blue and very worn hardcover book that Clarke would surely recognize.

When the blond finally took a breath after gulping down several mouthfuls of water, Lexa looked down at her expectantly. “How is your leg?”

Clarke glanced down at it. It ached dully, but the splint job was excellent. She bit her lip lightly before answering. “Better.”

“Good. I have more questions for you, Clarke _kom_ Griffin.”

“Fine.” Clarke jangled her shackled wrists, settling back against her trusty pole. She sighed, focusing her gaze at her feet and not on Lexa. She was getting very tired of this prisoner schtick, anxious to leave and find some answers. “Ask away, _commander._ ”   
  
The sarcastic stress on her title caused Lexa’s eyebrow to raise minutely, but she brushed it off and instead picked up the book in her lap. At the sight of it, Clarke straightened up and bristled, recognizing it as none other than her sketchbook, its spine branded with a ‘CG’.

“Hey! That’s my-“

“Yes,” Lexa cut her off, beginning to flip through it. Clarke glared, her cheeks starting to flush as the commander went through her artwork.

“I thought I lost it,” she said quietly.

“The _branwada_ that brought you here had it on him,” Lexa deadpanned. She flicked her eyes up to meet Clarke’s. “There are some very interesting things in here, Clarke.”

Clarke’s brow rose as she understood. “Things that you’ve never seen before?”

“Mostly,” Lexa answered curtly. She flipped through the pages purposefully until coming to a specific page, which she held up to show to Clarke.

It was a sketch Clarke had done last summer – or rather, a summer 97 years ago.

_“Holy shit, it’s bigger than I thought,” Raven murmured, staring up at the statue in reverence._

_“Honest Abe was a giant, didn’t cha know?” Clarke sing-songed, walking up to stand against the velvet ropes separating the tourists from the Lincoln Memorial. “He killed all the Confederates with a giant club and everything.”_

_“Oh shut up.” Raven laughed, brushing back her sleek black ponytail, its strands sticking to her neck in the July humidity. She groaned. “Why did we choose the hottest day to play tourist, Griff?”_

_“Because you’ve never seen D.C. before and it’s supposed to be even hotter later in the week,” Clarke retorted, an easy smile on her face despite the heat._

_“Yeah, yeah. It’s cool…so far,” Raven shot out with a joking glance cast over at Clarke. “I’m gonna go check out the gift shop.”_

_“Be my guest. I have enough patriotic D.C. souvenirs to fill the west wing.”_

_“Okay, so what you’re saying is to buy you a keychain and a few magnets?”_

_“You’re hilarious.”_

_“You love me, Griff,” Raven shot back, sticking her tongue out. She flounced off to the gift store, passing a Protectron tourbot who was reciting the history of the memorial to anyone who would give it a passing glance._

_Clarke moved over to a bench in the corner and leaned forward, her elbows on her thighs. She watched the tourists as they milled around the statue, posing and taking pictures in front of it. Feeling inspired, Clarke swung off her backpack and dug out her ever-present sketchbook. With a light heart and a slight smile gracing her lips, Clarke drew the scene in front of her, her pencil scratching gentle, precise lines in the paper as she waited for Raven to return with an armful of cheap souvenirs and an infuriating grin._

Lexa cleared her throat gently to bring the girl back to the present. “This is in Ton D.C., one of our villages. But it’s different.”

“Yeah, it’s the Lincoln Memorial. It’s really famous,” Clarke murmured, sinking back against the pole. Her eyes lowered to the floor as she dug her nails into her palms, trying to forget the day she drew the sketch that Lexa was holding up.

The commander ran her fingers over the drawing, frowning softly at the details that Clarke had filled out so carefully. “This is what it looked like?”

“Yeah.”

“His name was Lincoln?”

“Abraham.”

“What?”

“His name was Abraham Lincoln,” Clarke elaborated, sighing and wondering why she was giving Lexa a history lesson. “He freed the slaves during the Civil War.”

“Oh.” Lexa’s brow rose. She stared down at the sketch 

Clarke lifted her head and fixed Lexa with a penetrating look. “So do the sketches of my life prove my story? Or are you still going to send out your warriors?”

Lexa leaned back and crossed her legs, shutting the sketchbook with a soft thud. “I already did. They never made it to _Ravock_. They got close and found many _Maunon_ and their bots. They were looking for something.” She settled Clarke with a pointed look.

Clarke blinked in surprise. “They’re looking for me?”

The commander nodded once, curtly. She rose gracefully, brushing out her long coat with deft hands.

“Well then, you have to let me go!” Clarke argued, moving to get up off of the floor. Her leg hindered her slightly but she pulled herself up with the help of the tent pole. The blond took a shaky step forward, allowing the splint to take some of her weight.

“No, I don’t,” Lexa responded, raising her head slightly to meet angry blue eyes. “Trust me, Clarke. You do not want that.”

“Trust you? I’m chained up in your tent!” Clarke yelled, losing her nerve. “You don’t know me, you don’t know what I want!”

“Clarke-“

“Fuck you, _commander_ ,” Clarke spit out venomously, tugging at the chains around her wrists 

Lexa’s head tilted to the side, but she kept her composure. The commander took a few short steps until she a few short inches away from Clarke.

Clarke did not blink – she stared into the commander’s eyes, unrelenting in her challenge. They were about the same height, and Clarke could smell the other girl’s leather clothing and the sharp musk of some earthy perfume.

Green stared into blue, and blue into green. Clarke swallowed lightly, determined not to back down from the woman who had made her a prisoner.

“It’s for your own good,” Lexa finally murmured, studying Clarke’s face. She lingered a second longer before leaning forward and hooking her foot behind the blonde’s good leg, tugging forward. Unable to support herself on her bad leg, Clarke fell backwards with a yelp. Limbs askew, she landed hard on her behind and let out a string of impressive expletives directed towards the commander.

Lexa smirked lightly before raising herself to full height. “Until I know more about you and why the _maunon_ want you, I am keeping you close. We leave tomorrow for my summer lands. They will not find you there.”

“Wanna bet?” Clarke shot back as the brunette turned and left her alone in the tent. She tugged in vain at the shackles, flopping back on the floor dramatically when she got tired. The blond stared up at the canvas and fur of the tent ceiling, sighing deeply. Clarke’s mind wandered to her chances of escape in the days ahead, but annoyingly, kept coming back time and time again to the mysterious and infuriating Commander.


End file.
